


You're My Quiet Contemplation

by Captain_Loki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek POV, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Derek has this habit of catching Stiles in moments when he’s loose and unguarded. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Quiet Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> contains some frottage while the characters are mutually high, so possibly dub-con warning? Also, lets pretend werewolves can get toasted.

Derek has this habit of catching Stiles in moments when he’s loose and unguarded. It’s difficult to detect, when the boy spends so much of his time flailing about, hands gesticulating wildly as he speaks, slender fingers stuttering over _everything_ because he can’t sit still, but there’s a thread of tension that seems to wind itself around him, in the line of his back like a tether pulled taut between his shoulder blades. Derek notices only in its absence.  These moments Derek glimpses are rare, and it fills him with an indecent sort of privilege he prefers not to analyze.

Stiles is alone in his bedroom, the jeep parked crooked in the otherwise empty driveway. He’s lying on his back on the floor with his feet draped over the end of his bed, knees bent at an angle Derek thinks should be awkward but Stiles is jelly limbed where he’s sprawled. His face scrunches and smoothes in time to the music filtering through the ear buds he has in, ipod settled against his sternum, rising and falling slowly against the flannel stretched across his chest.

Derek closes his eyes and filters out the thrumming of the bass and narrows the world down to the steady rhythm of Stiles’ heartbeat until he can feel his own begin to match it. When he opens his eyes again he watches Stiles’ toes dancing in the black and blue striped socks he’s wearing. Derek is poised on the low rooftop just outside Stiles’ bedroom window, his finger stroking the wooden frame speculatively. He could move inside easily, window thrown open, but he doesn’t.

He just watches.

He watches the way Stiles’ head tilts back, the light catching on the slope of his adam’s apple. He watches as Stiles’ mouth parts on the softest moan, breathy and content.  Stiles raises his arm sloppily to his face, and Derek watches the joint that’s held loosely between Stiles forefinger and thumb fall against his lips.

They pucker around the joint, his face contorted into a look of the utmost concentration as he inhales sharply and holds it. Derek can feel Stiles heart rate quicken slightly before he exhales slowly, watching the smoke rise in columns towards the ceiling.

He doesn’t notice Derek perched just outside his window. When Stiles’ eyes fall closed again Derek slips inside, resting against the edge of the sill and watching Stiles take long and languid pulls off the dwindling joint, relaxed, like he isn’t the kid of an elected official.

When Stiles finishes he drops the remains in a jar of roaches and ash which he shoves just out of sight, beneath his bed. It’s a minute later by the time Stiles finally opens his eyes, lashes fluttering softly against the pale skin of his cheek. When he sees Derek, who makes no move to conceal himself, Stiles’ eyes widen and he jumps, whole body twitching rigidly against the floor before he registers who it is and he relaxes, his face splitting into a wide grin as he laughs, hands clasped over his chest.

Derek is overcome for a moment with a feeling like something unfurling deep in his gut. He can smell the rush of fear and adrenaline that surges through Stiles, the way his heart stutters slightly and his pupils dilate, fight or flight written clear on his panicked face.

But then he simply sags beneath the weight of his own indifference, like Derek, Big Bad Alpha Derek Hale, is nothing Stiles felt compelled to run from, or fight. He doesn’t know what to do with that information so he sidesteps it altogether as he moves forward into the room.

He can’t remember what he is even doing here in the first place but it doesn’t seem especially important now. Not when Stiles is struggling like a newborn pup to right himself from the floor, falling into uncontrollable bouts of the giggles as he reaches for Derek’s hand but makes absolutely no move to help as Derek hauls him to his feet.

“Super human strength, dude!” Stiles says like he is thinking about maybe calling it something ridiculous like _awesome,_ unironically, because Stiles thinks things _are_ awesome in a completely unironic way, like when they all order pizza sometimes and Stiles opens the box like he’s expecting bad news, before this look of unadulterated pleasure soothes over every feature. Or the time he finally got a spoon to hang off the end of his pointed nose, he, Scott and Isaac crammed together in one side of a small booth at the nearest Denny’s, nearly 3am on a Friday morning.

Then Stiles tells him he’s going to roll another and does he want Stiles to smoke him out? Derek just sort of looks at him a bit speculatively because he’s never actually tried it before, knows alcohol has almost no effect and he’d never actually bothered with it. But he watches as Stiles works, his fingers moving delicately, patiently in a way Stiles rarely is. Something catches in Derek’s throat when Stiles’ tongue works over the carefully rolled joint.

Then he’s snipping off the end with a pair of scissors and lighting it, watching the paper end burn slowly before reaching the marijuana, the scent of it clinging heavy to the air. Stiles is holding the joint out for him, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Derek thinks about the point of Stiles’ tongue closing up the edges of the paper and he puts it to his lips.

It burns, which is something he isn’t actually surprised about. But the feeling passes quickly as Derek’s lungs expand on an inhale of fresh air. He doesn’t cough which Stiles looks slightly put out about and Derek tries not to smirk, and he wonders if he could possibly be high already.

Later, when Stiles convinces him to join him on the floor, and Derek rolls with a little less agility than he’s used to, he _knows_ he’s high. It’s actually surprisingly comfortable, but he thinks that might have something to do with the THC fluttering in his brain. He contemplates the possibility of this becoming less of an exception and more of a rule, he thinks _that_ has little to do with the THC and more with the way Stiles keeps grasping at his arm, his chest and whatever else his hand finds as he speaks wildly.

He stops when he catches the look on Derek’s face. Derek can see his reflection in Stiles’ eyes, and he never noticed before how brown they are and then he doesn’t say anything for a stretch of time that feels too long in the quiet room.

Stiles is just sort of staring at him, the ghost of a smile still on his lips, and they’re so close Derek has to look down to watch them. They look impossibly soft, like the rest of him, like all the sharp angles and hard lines he’ll be in a few years are hiding just out of sight.

He’s already starting to grow into his cheek bones.

Derek has this sort of slow realization then, lying on Stiles’ bedroom floor, playing footsy sort of absently against his rumpled sheets, Stiles’ arm pressed against his. But it doesn’t actually register as an actual thought, his brain too foggy and _soggy_ Derek thinks and he gets lost for a moment making pointless rhymes and word associations.

He can’t remember what he was even thinking exactly until he looks back at Stiles face and wants to kiss him.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, _right_.

“It’s _Stiles_ ,” Derek thinks, _“Stiles_!” And it sounds even more incredulous the second time he says it. Stiles is looking at him funny and Derek realizes he is actually speaking out loud.

“Pretty much since always,” Stiles tells him.

“You’re just an idiotic human,” Derek tells him, but he’s talking to Stiles the way he sometimes talks to the pack when they’re not actually there and he’s just sort of practicing.

“Hey thanks,” Stiles says.

“You’re obnoxious,” Derek tries to reason. Stiles’ face scrunches up in confusion and Derek shakes his head. He feels like the world has slowed down considerably and he’s starting to lose the feeling in his legs a little bit. Stiles is poking at his own.

“You’re _human_ and _obnoxious_ and mostly just _completely_ infuriating,” Derek says slowly and his voice sounds a bit desperate to his own ears, slightly maniac and a lot irritated. Stiles’ face actually contorts into a pout, an honest to God _pout_ and Derek can’t help the smirk this time. Except he can still see his face in Stiles’ eyes and he looks like something he doesn’t think he has for long enough that it doesn’t fit his face quite right anymore, but Stiles is looking at him like he did that one time Derek made a subtle _Firefly_ reference.

Derek wants to find out what shape the freckles on Stiles’ face make.

“You’re _human_ ,” he says one last time, hoping this time it’ll really stick with him. Stiles is looking kind of bummed out at this point.

“We’ve established…” he trails off not looking Derek in the eye any longer. But Derek shakes his head because Stiles doesn’t _get it_.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” Derek explains, shaking his head. “I just mean… _why_?” Stiles is looking at him like he’s some sort of hallucination or a daydream gone wrong.

“Why what, dude?” Stiles asks, and he laughs.

“Why are you even here?” He asks. Stiles face contorts into a look of deep confusion.

“I live here?” It’s the lilt of his voice on the question that makes Derek huff out another laugh. Stiles actually _hehe_ s at the sound of it before slipping into another fit of giggles, clutching at his sides.

Stiles is looking at him with this dopey sort of affection one might fix on a small child you can’t understand but are trying to foster and encourage communication in. He doesn’t know whether it’s irritating or endearing. He raises a finger to the freckles over Stiles’ left eye and he runs his thumb across them, smoothing down his brow before he lets his hand drop, catching on the sweep of his cheek bone.

“Werewolves can get baked,” Derek observes. Stiles’ face splits into a wide grin as his head lolls back, eyes turned towards the ceiling, he wants to trace the slope of Stiles’ nose with his own.

“Yeah they can!” And then Stiles is raising a hand, fingers curling into a loose fist as he gestures for Derek’s. When Derek doesn’t return it, Stiles just lets his fingers unfurl and he gropes blindly for Derek’s jaw, patting his cheek softly.

“Stiles?” Derek tries to whisper but it comes out sounding raspy, his throat raw. Stiles angles his body almost imperceptibly towards him as he returns the question with a look.

He doesn’t say anything though and neither does Derek, Stiles’ hand is caressing his jaw, his thumb stroking up and down his cheek, against the grain of his light stubble. His cock feels heavy in his jeans, waking interestedly when Stiles’ heart rate starts to quicken, throbbing at his pulse points.

In the end he only has to slide forward an inch before Stiles is leaning into his space, tilting his head a little too much, a little too fast, the weed loosening his joints too much. Their first kiss is sloppy and unsure, Derek tentatively sliding his own hand up to gently cup the back of Stiles’ head, hand cushioned in the short spiky strands of his hair.

Stiles nudges as close as he can before he meets the solid stretch of Derek’s body. His left leg bumps against Derek’s right as he rolls himself onto his side, leg dropping between Derek’s, his knee cradled in the crook of Stiles’. Derek can feel how hard he is, pressed against his hip.

Stiles’ is mouth is just as soft as Derek expected, and he’s pliant and obedient beneath him, lips falling open at the first press of Derek’s tongue. Stiles groans unexpectedly as their tongues meet, scrabbling for control in Stiles’ mouth. Derek nips at Stiles’ lower lip as his hand drops from its persistent stroke across Derek’s jaw.

Derek lets Stiles’ hand wander down his neck to slide over his clavicle and the broad expanse of his chest. When his finger catches on the hard nub of one of Derek’s nipples Stiles actually giggles into his mouth and has to pull away.

“It’s the dope, I swear,” Stiles says trying to control himself.

“Stiles, you nearly wet yourself stone cold sober three days ago because Isaac said buttplug.” Stiles makes a scandalized face at him, mouth set in a wide ‘o’ and at this angle his teeth look like sharp points in an uneven line.

Then he’s giggling, low and guiltily, dropping his head against Derek’s neck, nose nuzzling at the underside of his jaw, hand braced against his abs that flutter beneath the warm touch. Stiles’ laughter turns to heavy panting before Derek can perceive the shift and his dick throbs where it’s pressed between them, Stiles hand fisting in the bottom of Derek’s soft grey henley.

“Can I touch you?” Stiles ask, voice a little wrecked and desperate, serious in a way it wasn’t just moments ago.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he moans out, involuntarily, because Stiles’ fist is kneading too close to the hard line of his dick. He wants to say yes, to scrabble at Stiles’ hand and bring it down decisively against his erection. But he doesn’t, but then Stiles sort of takes all the decision making out of his hands because he’s rolling top of Derek now, until he’s straddling Derek, whose feet are still draped awkwardly over Stiles’ bed, like an overgrown child.

Stiles fingers grip Derek’s shoulders firmly, his lips crashing down against his one more time before he’s making a slow, hard grind of his hips against Derek’s. It drags Stiles’ hard cock against his own and he groans out, low and harsh, hands scrabbling for Stiles’ waist, broad hands spread across his hips. He knows he should push Stiles off, be the responsible one here, but Stiles is arching his back just slightly, and Derek’s grip tightens, forcing Stiles into him even harder when the teenager makes another generous sweep of his hips.

Stiles falls against Derek’s chest, and one of Derek’s hands slides beneath the edge of Stiles’ t-shirt until he’s scraping with human fingernails up his broad back and holding. Stiles’ lips are slipping spit soaked across his, until they’re no longer kissing, just panting harshly into each other’s mouths as their hips mime fucking, dry humping fully clothed on Stiles’ bedroom floor.

Stiles’ hips still make a satisfying _slap slap_ against Derek’s, and he desperately wants to push Stiles’ jeans down, he settles instead for dipping a hand beneath the waistband and into his boxers, groping the hot skin of one round ass cheek.

Stiles moans high pitched, Derek’s name a stuttered whisper on his lips as he freezes above him, Derek still dragging his hips across Derek’s own. Derek can feel Stiles’ dick twitching with his orgasm. It takes only another three violent thrusts of his hips before Derek is tipped over the edge, too, gasping for breath and Stiles’ lips.

They kiss with sloppy abandon, messes cooling in their jeans, until the sun slinks beneath the edges of the horizon.

 

 

 

 


End file.
